<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Parethesia by ThatWritingHo</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166396">Parethesia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWritingHo/pseuds/ThatWritingHo'>ThatWritingHo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Magnus Effect [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationships, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Dirty Talk, Band Mates With Benefits, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, Friends With Benefits, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Misgendering, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Intoxicated Sex, Kloktober, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Non-Consensual Hole Switching, Patchouli Hatred, Pickles baby please get some therapy, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Coercion, Slut Shaming, Trauma fic, internalized slut shaming, referenced transphobia, retraumatization, trans!pickles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:49:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166396</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWritingHo/pseuds/ThatWritingHo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kloktober Day 26: Sacrifice</p><p>It was the only way he knew how to function, to appease his inner demons; by sacrificing his own health, both mental and physical. Sacrificing his well being for a moment's peace, no matter how brief. </p><p>Those nights when it got bad, when his mind decided to torture him, when all he could do was think and think and remember, there was only ever one solution.</p><p>Get fucking obliterated.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Magnus Hammersmith/Pickles The Drummer, Referenced Antonio "Tony" DiMarco Thunderbottom/Pickles the Drummer, Referenced Magnus Hammersmith/ William Murderface</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Magnus Effect [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Parethesia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was going to wait and post this on the actual day, but I am super sick(possibly covid, test results come back tomorrow) so I thought I better post now while I have the energy.</p><p>Please mind the tags, there's triggering stuff in here.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pickles had never been good at denying himself something he wanted, even the smallest things. Moderation was a word that didn't exist in his vocabulary; he always went too hard, took too much, crossed the line and then kept going. He was loathe to admit that his vices controlled him, that his bad habits ran his life. After all, he <em> chose </em> to get fucked up; he bought the booze, sought out the drugs, took the pills offered to him- no one was forcing him.</p><p>It was the only way he knew how to function, to appease his inner demons; by sacrificing his own health, both mental and physical. </p><p>Sacrificing his well being for a moment's peace, no matter how brief. </p><p>Those nights when it got bad, when his mind decided to torture him, when all he could do was think and think and <em> remember </em>, there was only ever one solution.</p><p>Get fucking obliterated.</p><p>Take comfort in his bad habits. </p><p>Make a sacrifice of himself.</p><p>Just like he had done tonight. </p><p>Magnus Hammersmith was, without a doubt, a bad fucking habit, one that Pickles couldn't seem to shake. It had been a bad idea from the start; they both knew how badly this could go, that band mates sleeping together broke up even the best of bands.</p><p>And that wasn't even mentioning the fact that Magnus was also sleeping with Murderface. </p><p>He was in a fucking friends with benefits love triangle. </p><p>Pickles didn't want to think about it. About how Magnus was probably treating the kid the same way he treated Pickles. </p><p>It was wrong, fucked up. Murderface was too vulnerable, too young, too naive, too desperate for affection and approval. He could only imagine the kinds of horrible things he let Magnus do to him. </p><p>Pickles couldn't help but feel kind of responsible, like he was an accomplice in The Ruining of William Murderface, like him being involved with Magnus set a bad example, made it ok, because god knows the kid looked up to Pickles for some awful, misguided reason. </p><p>But he wasn't going to think about that. Not right now. He <em> couldn't </em>. Not with the roxies bleeding through his system, not with the liquor in his stomach, not with Magnus fucking Hammersmith pulling off his clothes because Pickles' own limbs were too jellied to do it himself. </p><p>Pickles should tell him to stop. He really, really should. But, fuck, he felt so <em> good </em> , and he was so <em> horny, </em>with that deep fucking ache in his core that only came from a desire for dick, to get thoroughly and truly fucked. </p><p>Even if he knew it was a bad idea. </p><p>Even if he knew it would make him weird. Wrong. Violated. </p><p>Even if he knew he would regret it, maybe as soon as they finished. Maybe even before he came. </p><p>But he pushed all that back. He didn't want to think about that. He just wanted to be here, in the now, to feel good and not think, to get fucked stupid and turn off his brain for a while. </p><p>While Pickles trudged through his muddled thoughts, Magnus had succeeded in undressing them both, instructing Pickles to get on his hands and knees. </p><p>Ugh. At least he wouldn't have to look at Magnus. </p><p>Small blessings. </p><p>Pickles groaned with the effort of moving, struggling to keep his own weight up, arms giving out and upper body collapsing back to the mattress, hips supported only by his legs folded under them. </p><p>"Christ man, look at you. You're really fucked up."</p><p><em> Then stop </em> was the immediate response that came to Pickles mind, <em> then stop, don't fucking touch me, leave me alone </em>. But he was too horny to call it quits now, aching to be filled, needing to be fucked no matter how humiliating it was to just lay there and be a warm hole, barely even a person. Besides, if he told Magnus to stop, he'd throw a fit, and Pickles had neither the energy nor the brain power to deal with A Magnus Tantrum at the moment. </p><p>And there was always that worry, that cold, lingering fear, that if Pickles asked Magnus to stop, he wouldn't, he would just fuck him anyways even if Pickles said <em> no </em>, and…</p><p>He didn't want to think about that. He <em> couldn't </em> think about that. No matter how unlikely, no matter how much Pickles thought that Magnus wouldn't actually do that, that even though the guy was shit with boundaries, he wouldn't ever go that far, be that evil, Pickles didn't want to chance it. So he never said no, never said stop. Just lay there and let it all happen and told himself he liked it, liked being controlled and fucked with and humiliated. It was fine. It's what he wanted. It's what he deserved for letting it happen again and again. </p><p>The pop from the lube bottle opening made Pickles groan, his cunt twitching, aching with the emptiness. </p><p>"C'mahhhn, Mags, jus' <em> fuck </em> meeee."</p><p>The cold press of a lubed finger against his asshole made Pickles squirm, shivering, tensing even though he knew that would only make it worse. </p><p>God, this wasn't what he wanted. </p><p>He just wanted a quick fuck, a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and sleep. But Magnus had to be difficult, could sense Pickles' mental fragility like a shark smelling a drop of blood, and had to draw it out, push Pickles, test his limits.</p><p>"That's the plan, buddy."</p><p>Magnus could never just give Pickles what he fucking wanted. </p><p>"Ya… yanno what I-" Pickles groaned as the finger breached him, Magnus' other hand spreading his cheek farther for a better view "-what I mean."</p><p>Magnus laughed, wiggling his finger inside, massaging up against the tensed muscles. </p><p>"Now now. Don't be <em> ungrateful, </em> Pickles. You wanna get fucked? You're gonna get fucked. But it's gonna be how <em> I </em> want."</p><p>Pickles voiced a drawn out "Maaaags", wiggling his hips as best he could, and a hand came down sharply on his cheek.</p><p>"Stop fucking whining. God. You sound like a chick."</p><p>That shut Pickles up, clamped his lips shut and nailed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, Magnus taking the opportunity to add a second finger, digging them around inside of Pickles with little regard for later soreness, scissoring against the resistance.</p><p>"You gotta relax. Here-" the fingers thankfully stopped, lodged inside of him but blessedly still, and Pickles squaked as the pillows were ripped out from under his head. His face landed on the bare corner of the mattress where the sheet had long since been tugged off, his neck at a weird angle, nose pressing into the dank fabric, smelling of stale sweat and old shitty brick weed and patchouli and cheap cologne. </p><p>Pickles fucking <em> hated </em> patchouli.</p><p>The fingers impaling him suddenly pushed up, hard, lifting his hips solely through that point of contact, making Pickles shudder and writhe, struggling against the weird, acute pressure.</p><p>"Mags, what the <em> fuck-" </em></p><p>"Fuckin', hold still, god…"</p><p>The pillows were shoved under his hips, and Magnus messed with them a moment, folding them on themselves and shifting Pickles this way and that, finally deciding he was happy with the angle. </p><p>"There. You comfortable now?"</p><p>Pickles squirmed sluggishly, though didn't succeed in redistributing the weight of his body at all.</p><p>"Yeeeeah… 'm fine. Thanks, Mags."</p><p>"Uh huh. Don't ever say I never did nothin’ for you."</p><p>Pickles chose to ignore the "fucking princess" mumbled under Magnus' breath. Focus on the good. Focus on the good and the bad won't be so bad. Focus on the good...</p><p>Magnus was disarming like that; rough and ruthless in the way he treated Pickles 95℅ of the time, and then at the last moment would pull back, do something small and thoughtful, like propping up his hips when he's too gone to hold himself up, or carry him to the bed when he blacked out on the couch, or get him a glass of water when he woke up with a fucked raw throat. It would only be later, long after Magnus was gone from the band and Pickles' life, that he would realize all those small, kind acts that made Pickles pause and think, <em> hey, maybe he<strong> does</strong> care a little, maybe he <strong>does</strong> see me as a person, he <strong>has</strong> to, right? or he wouldn't do x and y; </em>those little thoughtful occurrences that Pickles banked on, relied on to keep himself sane, that allowed Pickles to keep coming back, they were all of them self serving; the pillows to give Magnus a better angle to fuck, the bed to sleep in merely a ploy for morning head, the cup of water always half empty by the time it was handed to Pickles. </p><p>But in the moment, as it was happening, all Pickles could think, with his low standards for kindness and history of abuse was, <em> damn, that's nice of him, maybe this won't be so bad, maybe he'll go easier on me this time </em>.</p><p>He really should have known better. </p><p>"<em> Jeeeeesussssss- </em> fuckin' <em> Christ </em>, mother douchebags!"</p><p>Pickles had been swimming in his high, a million miles away, and hadn't even noticed the fingers leave him, hadn't noticed the sound of Magnus lubing up his cock, hadn't noticed the way hands were gripping his hips, the way Magnus had lined up behind him, and then the plush head of his cock was pushing passed his ring of muscles with no warning, no preamble, shoving forward roughly, splitting Pickles' insides.</p><p>"Yeah, that's it. That's what you fuckin like, right? Like it fucking <em> rough </em> -" Magnus snapped his hips, skin slapping skin as he emphasized the word, Pickles keening under him, fighting to catch his breath, mind reeling as he felt full and empty at the same time, aching, <em> fucked </em> but not in a satisfying way, "god, you're such a, ahhh, a slut, just fucking… <em> takin' it </em> like this," a bony hand grabbed Pickles shoulder for leverage, fingers digging into his skin, nails creating sharp little crescents as he set a fast, hard, unforgiving pace, "say it."</p><p>Pickles panted, hands gripping the bunched sheet so hard his knuckles turned white, though he couldn't really feel it, his fingers numb and body <em> off </em> as if shifted half a centimeter from his consciousness, not lined up right, just barely on another plane of existence, but still he clung to the balled up fabric, desperate to ground himself to something other than the dick inside him. He licked his lips, opened his mouth only for a choked moan to come out, and relished in the smack Magnus landed on his ass. </p><p>
  <em> "Say it." </em>
</p><p>"Gahd, <em> fuck </em> , 'm… 'm a slut… I'm a fuckin' <em> slut! </em>"</p><p>Pickles shivered all over, trembling as Magnus pounded into his ass, body still limp, only able to lay there and feel the drag of his cock, the grip of his hands, hating how much he was enjoying this, knowing it was fucked up, that <em> he </em> was fucked up, that this was <em> wrong wrong wrong, so fucking wrong </em>. </p><p>Visions swam through his muddled mind, faces, hazy and fuzzy but still somehow so visceral; of Tony, of that grease ball record exec, of Seth's sick fucking friends, and suddenly he wasn't there, was no longer on Magnus' bed, in Magnus' apartment- he was floating, drifting through time and space and emptiness, numb except to the hands on him, <em> god there were so many fucking hands on him, </em> on the back of his head and around his neck and groping at the long gone flesh of his chest and on his thighs and between his legs, holding him down as his mouth and cunt and ass were filled, and he couldn't scream, couldn't fight, all Pickles could do was fucking <em> sob- </em></p><p>"-are you <em> crying? </em>"</p><p>Pickles gasped, suddenly back in his body, back in Magnus' bed, in Magnus' hands, with only Magnus' cock inside him, totally still, frozen. </p><p>"Uh…"</p><p><em> Fuck fuck fuck. </em> </p><p>"Pickles?"</p><p>The way Magnus said his name was almost like he was worried, almost like he cared, and it made Pickles feel ill, nervous and caught and seen and and and- </p><p>
  <em> "Pickles." </em>
</p><p>What did Magnus expect, for Pickles to fucking <em> talk </em> to him? God. Opening up to Magnus, spilling his heart out while his dick was still in his ass, it was silly, ridiculous, out of the question, comical.</p><p>The thought tickled his high mind in just the right way, and Pickles laughed, strained and choked, but a laugh none the less. He hiccuped, sniffling, mustered up his strength and rolled his hips back, shaking with the effort. </p><p>"'m, 'm just reeel high, Mags, real, rehhhl fuckin horny, dood."</p><p>Magnus ran a hand over the small of Pickles back, almost soothingly, and chuckled. </p><p>"That right? You that desperate to have your pussy played with? Gonna fucking cry about it?"</p><p>
  <em> Pussy? </em>
</p><p>Pickles stomach churned at the word, any previous notion of concern on Magnus' part vanishing, like the guy was trying to make up for the minor slip in apathy with abrasiveness. </p><p>Magnus <em> knew </em> Pickles hated when he referred to it like that.</p><p>"Yes or no, Pickles."</p><p>
  <em> Fucking douchebag... </em>
</p><p>"I… I…" Pickles swallowed, hard, seriously debating on if getting off was worth it, but pushed back his pride, ignoring the nausea in his stomach, promising himself it would only be this once, just to get what he wanted and cum and get this over with, so he could just go to sleep and maybe never wake up. Promising himself he would never let Magnus do this again; never fuck him, never touch his ass, never grab him and grope him and act like he owned him, none of it, never again.</p><p>"Y-yeeeeah, Mags… I want, I want yew ta, ta fuckin… wit' my… jest, <em> please. </em> I wanna cum so <em> bad… </em> Yeh gotta let me... <em> " </em></p><p>"God, you get so dumb when you're high. So fucking hot."</p><p>Magnus withdrew himself, taking a moment to poke and prod at Pickles' ass, spreading his cheeks and smiling wide at the way he gaped, how the muscles quivered, how Pickles shivered from the cold air. </p><p>"Doooood… c'mahhhn"</p><p>The room span as Pickles was flipped, landing awkwardly with his arm twisted beneath himself, legs tangled in the sheet. Cold hands pulled at his thighs, clamping just below his knees and spreading as Pickles struggled to take control of his arm, managing to move it to an angle that probably wouldn't leave him with a strain in the morning. </p><p>"You're a sloppy mess, you know that?"</p><p>"Yeeeeahhh," some feeling was returning to his limbs, and Pickles slid his hand down his torso, trying to be smooth and provocative but his fingers were too numb, and instead caught on his sweaty skin, ruining the effect. Still, his hand made it between his thighs, rubbing clumsily over his cock, sighing in content as he finally got some decent fucking stimulation. </p><p>"Ah ah ah" Magnus chastised, swatting his fingers away, "keep those hands up. Or do you <em> want </em> me to get the cuffs?"</p><p>Being restrained under Magnus was the <em> last </em> thing Pickles wanted. The first, and last, time it had happened, the guy had pulled out his pocket knife as soon as the leather was secured, taking some kind of sick pleasure in the way Pickles eyes widened with fear, how he had stuttered and stumbled over his words, telling him to put that away, that he wasn't into that, it was a bad idea, they were too fucked up and someone was gonna get hurt. Magnus had laughed, called him a pussy, said he knew his way around a knife, <em> trust me.  </em></p><p>"Besides, if I killed ya, you'd go cold, and I don't wanna to fuck a cold pussy. Gotta keep ya alive, nice and warm."</p><p>He had said it with a laugh, like it was meant to be a joke, like the thought of gutting Pickles right there with Magnus' cock still in him was silly and inconvenient at best. It made Pickles fucking sick, filled his veins with cold dread and panic, scared him so bad, so deep that he couldn't say anything, couldn't say no, couldn't say stop, couldn't do anything but lay there, helpless, as Magnus ran the blunt edge of the knife over his trembling body, scratching angry red lines into his soft skin, and the next day telling him how good they looked on him, how they complimented his hair, looked great mixed with his freckles. It made Pickles flesh crawl.  </p><p>He really needed to stop. </p><p>Magnus' glazed his fingers sloppily over Pickles folds, just enough pressure to make him want more, make him roll his hips up into those bony fingers, desperate. </p><p>"You got a hungry little pussy. All you want is to be fucked and fucked and fucked…"</p><p>Finally those fingers slid into him, thumb pressing against the base of Pickles' aching cock, rubbing up to the tip and back down, and, fuck, it felt so good Pickles couldn't bring himself to kick the guy off for using that fucking word again. </p><p>"You're never fucking satisfied, are you?"</p><p>Pickles' mouth fell open, garbled sounds of pleasure leaving his lips, head thrown to the side. </p><p>"Fuck, yeeeah, Mags, c'mahn, <em> more, </em>gimme more"</p><p>"More, huh?" Magnus smiled wickedly, pulling his hand back as Pickles whined, lightly kicking his legs in protest. </p><p>"Fuck yew, gahd, dammit…"</p><p>His legs were pressed up, folded against his torso, straining his muscles, and Pickles went rigid as Magnus' cock slipped inside his cunt. </p><p>The fucker didn't even wipe off!</p><p>"Gahd, Mags… don't… yer gonna… gonna gimme... a' infection"</p><p>"Yeah? Want me to stop?"</p><p>Pickles could only moan, low and afflicted, as the brutal pace resumed, knowing he couldn't form the words, couldn't ask Magnus to stop now, with his tongue thick in his mouth like this, with the ache deep in his abdomen finally quelled. If he stopped now, it would all be for nothing, all the humiliation so far, and he would just be left frustrated and horny and would probably have to find a different place to crash for the night. </p><p>It was all such a fucking hassle. </p><p>Easier to just stay quiet.</p><p>So he resigned himself to the filth of it, resigned himself to the inevitable yeast infection. It was already done, the soiled dick was already in him, so he may as well enjoy himself despite the shame bubbling up in his chest, in his throat, at the fact that some part of him longed for Magnus' callous inconsideration, sought it out, craved it. He wanted this, to be used, to be fucked nasty and raw with no consideration for himself, for Magnus to just take what he wanted and give no thought to Pickles own desire. It made him sick, fucking <em> sick </em> , when he came to that realization, so he had tuned it out, tried not to think about it too hard, numbed himself with booze and pills and weed until he <em> couldn't </em> think about it, could only lay here and let Magnus <em> take take take </em> and get off on it. </p><p>(It wouldn't be until decades later, sitting in that god awful pastel office with that god awful pastel therapist that he would learn that retraumatization was a thing, that him seeking out abuse again and again was normal for those who had been sexually assaulted. A vicious fucking cycle, horribly self destructive, but normal. And, hey, what habits did Pickles enjoy that <em> weren't </em> self destructive?</p><p>He didn't want to think about that, either.)</p><p>So Pickles let the guy do whatever he fucking wanted. Because if Magnus was in control, if Magnus was the one doing it all, Pickles didn't have to take any responsibility, didn't have to face the parts of himself that wanted to be abused. It was just another fucked up thing happening to him, another reason to drown himself in substances, another fucked up low he was pulled down to. He could handle that. Despite how sick and miserable it made him feel, how much his chest felt like it would cave in the next morning, how disgusting and <em> wrong </em> it felt to walk to the bathroom with Magnus' jizz oozing down his thighs, how he couldn't even look in the mirror half the time. Well. That was familiar territory, that kind of sick self loathing. A familiar beast. He could handle that. </p><p>(He really couldn't.)</p><p>And hey, at least he got some pleasure out of it, right? At least it felt good most of the time, right? Sex wasn't even <em> supposed </em> to feel good, right? That's what he had always heard, at least, through jokes on tv and that sad excuse of a sex ed class in sixth grade. It was supposed to hurt for the one getting fucked. For the one with a cunt. It was <em> supposed </em> to hurt. You were supposed to bleed and lock up and cry, like all those women in porn, all those videos of girls getting slapped around, ugly crying and not even cumming, just being used. You were supposed to look at it like a chore, something done to please someone else, something that was done <em> to you </em> not <em> for you </em> . Only sluts and whores and dirty, no good, wild heathen girls <em> liked </em> getting fucked.</p><p>But Pickles liked it. </p><p>Not always, not all the time. But sometimes it was good. </p><p>Not when he was 8 and held down at the playground at night by Seth's older friends, guys he followed and worshiped because they were <em> legit, actual teenagers, dude </em> , too drunk on stolen 40s to fight, unable to scream as they called him things like <em> freak </em> and <em> queer </em> and <em> faggot, </em> because Pickles had started punching anyone that called him a girl, stopped responding to the name <em> Amy </em>.</p><p>Not when he was 16 and sitting in that record exec's lap, unable to say no because Snakes <em> needed </em> to get signed, they were all counting on him, and <em> everyone does it, sweetheart, no need to be shy </em>. </p><p>Not when he was 18 and heroin high for the first time, on the tenth anniversary of that night in the park, Tony looking at him like he wanted to devour him heart and soul, <em> finally legal </em> , hands roaming and groping and <em> come on, babe, it'll feel so good, promise </em> and Pickles, too tired, too high, too overwhelmed to say no, to tell him <em> not today, any day but today, I can't handle this right now, please, if you love me then why can't you see I'm upset? </em></p><p>Not when Magnus fed him pills and liquor and weed, all too eager to let Pickles drown himself, to enable his addictions, to reap the benefits of his numbness, his lack of fight, his helplessness, pushing and pushing and pushing, always testing, morbidly curious to see where Pickles' limits lie, what would finally make him say no, tell him to stop. Magnus never found that line. </p><p>But <em>sometimes</em>. Sometimes Pickles liked it.</p><p>He liked it with girls. <em> Fuck </em> , did he ever like it with girls. And he liked it with guys who weren't fucking assholes, guys who respected when he said no, guys who would <em> stop </em> . Guys who didn't look at him and just see another <em> pussy </em> to fuck, a girl confused, who just needed enough dick to realize she was, actually, a woman, and be so thankful that his magic cock had made her see the light, changed her whole fucking life. But those decent guys were few and far between, impossible to tell from just a chat up at a bar or after a show, and assholes seemed to be all he attracted anymore. </p><p>So he was a whore, a slut, a dirty thing that deserved to be used and treated like shit, because he was lesser, because he liked having a dick in his cunt or his ass or his mouth, because he sought it out, looked for it, craved the fucking penetration even when it hurt him. And that made it ok. It made everything Magnus did to him, everything Tony did to him, everything those record execs for Snakes N' Barrels did to him, made it all ok. </p><p>Because he deserved it.</p><p>Because he was dirty. </p><p>Because he was a freak.</p><p>And he <em> always </em> had been. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whoooo buddy nothing like writing a good ole trauma vent fic when you're in a major downward spiral, amiright?</p><p>Comments have healing powers and will make me feel better😘</p><p>(Really though I'm desperate and need validation)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>